


In Which Mallory Finds Out

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is smug, Established Relationship, Humor, In a way, M/M, Mallory finds out, Morning Routine, Q doesn't take it well at first but then he enjoys it, the perils of having identical phones and ringtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Bond,” he says, perhaps a little sleep-raspy while Q buries his nose in his collarbone.</i>
</p><p> <i>There’s a long, long pause, somehow brimming with tension, and then:</i></p><p> <i>“Bond, what the devil are you doing answering the Quartermaster’s phone at three in the morning?!”</i></p><p> <i>Oh.</i></p><p>-</p><p>Mallory finds out that 007 and the Quartermaster are sleeping together - literally and figuratively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Mallory Finds Out

**Author's Note:**

> I love the 'Mallory finds out' scenario, so I just had to do it :D
> 
> Shout-out to the lovely [releasetheglitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch) who motivated me to finish this and who is always fun to rant headcanons with :D

* * *

The sharp ringtone pushes insistently into Bond’s sleep, crumbling it away and dragging him up into unwilling consciousness. A pang of readiness surges through him, well trained into him but no less unwelcome, and he blearily eyes the bedside clock, digital numbers glowing in the thick darkness: 3 am. Perfect time to be called up for an urgent mission.

There’s a groan beside him, Q whining half-asleep in the sheets, hair utterly mussed as he tries to escape the noise by pushing his face into Bond’s side.

Bond reaches half-blindly for the trilling phone, gathering a faintly grumbling Q with his free arm. He swings one leg over Q’s thigh to pull him in closer, and Q magically relaxes and settles, already beginning to doze off again, curled into a warm weight against Bond’s chest.

The caller ID glows sharply in the dark and reads ‘ _Mallory’,_ because Bond still hasn’t changed him to ‘ _M’._ He swipes over the screen to take the call.

“Bond,” he says, perhaps a little sleep-raspy while Q buries his nose in his collarbone.

There’s a long, long pause, somehow brimming with tension, and then:

“ _Bond, what the devil are you doing answering the Quartermaster’s phone at three in the morning_?!”

Oh.

Admittedly, a bit of his blood goes cold at Mallory’s nearly furious hiss, and it’s his turn to be silent for a tense beat. Now, significantly more awake due to the abrupt jolt of adrenaline, he can feel the texture of two stickers decorating the casing of Q’s phone, and he allows the situation to sink in. Then, he does the only thing he could and would do, and proceeds to have a bloody cheek.

“I’ll put him on, sir,” he says in a perfectly professional tone, and then he nudges Q. “It’s for you.”

A second, and Q’s head snaps up, eyes wide as the realisation floods him. He takes the phone, rolling away from Bond and onto his back.

“Q here,” his voice doesn’t waver, but his body is stiff.

Bond pre-emptively begins to nuzzle and cuddle into Q’s side, because he knows very well that he’ll be in trouble for this as soon as the most uncomfortable phone call of Q’s professional life is over. (And that includes that time Q was on the phone with one of the idiots in budgeting while Bond was happily busy between his legs. Then again, Q - being the devious minx he is - had enjoyed the whole incident as much as Bond had, so perhaps that incident doesn’t count after all.)

Q listens to whatever Mallory is saying, responding in short words, and Bond is being at his sweetest, nosing at Q’s arm and rubbing his cheek over his shoulder, snuggling close and doing his best to ingratiate himself and possibly relax Q a little, if possible.

“Yes. Yes. I understand. When did it ping? No. No, no, that’ll be fine. I’ll get right on it, sir. Yes.”

Q drops the phone onto the nightstand, staring motionlessly into the ceiling for a moment, before he picks up the nearest pillow and presses it into his face in a worryingly earnest attempt at suicide.

“Q? Q,“ Bond pulls the pillow out of his grip, because the sounds coming from underneath it are turning into genuine wheezing.

“Fuck,” Q’s eyes are unseeingly stuck on the ceiling. “Fuck shit fuck buggering fuck.”

Bond knows laughing would have atrocious consequences right now, so he prudently fights the amused smile trying to break out on his face.

“Oh, fucking fuck.”

“ ’s not that bad,” Bond tries to dismantle some of Q’s tension and runs a soothing hand over his side, thumbing the jutting hipbone (and the purpling mark sucked into it). Q gives him a baleful look.

“No, you’re right, it’s just my boss finding out that I’m shagging a subordinate. Who has a reputation, I might add. Buggering fuck. Right, you’re changing your ringtone, clearly we can’t both have the same one,” Q commands and then decisively throws off the covers and gets out of bed, snatching his glasses off the nightstand on the way.

Bond rolls onto his stomach, watching him cross the room towards the door. In the passage, Q stops and turns around, looking over his shoulder. He lingers in a moment that seems fragile, somehow; lips parted in the barest touch of hesitation, and his voice is softened with understanding.

“I still can’t change him from Mallory to ‘M’ in my contacts, either,” he says. And then, he pads out of the room.

Bond can see the lamp turn on in the living room, forming a soft carpet of light spilling out through the doorway. He can hear Q bustle around his laptop and other pieces of equipment, and eventually he decides enough is enough and he clambers out of the bed as well. Q’s side was beginning to cool off anyway.

He pulls on a pair of track bottoms that half-heartedly serve him as pyjamas when he doesn’t sleep naked, and walks the warm carpet of light into the living room. Q is seated at the table littered with the usual array of electronics and dismantled bits of prototypes and a few odd gun parts that permanently linger in their home. Bond is particularly mindful when traversing the flat at night, because walking around barefoot inevitably leads to stepping on bolts and screws and other delights. The perils of living with a genius engineer.

Q is already immersed in his laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes sharp and focused behind his glasses, not a trace of slumber left. He’s dressed only in his underwear, and he’ll start getting chilly soon, so Bond flings at him the t-shirt he’d had the loving foresight to bring. Q grunts out a sound vaguely interpreted as thanks.

With Q immersed in the newest world-threatening cybernetic crisis, Bond sets about making breakfast, because he knows there’s no way he’ll be able to go back to sleep now, so he might as well start his day. Tea is the most important necessity, of course, so he carefully pours boiling water into a horrendously eyesore tourist souvenir mug he’d thoughtfully gotten for Q in Tunisia. He also makes scrambled eggs for himself and orange marmalade sandwiches for Q because he eats those like he’s Paddington the bear.

The tea and sandwiches are received with a slightly distracted hum and then green eyes flicking up, accompanied by a warm smile of wordless thanks. Bond helps himself to a kiss of thanks as well. Q’s curls are soft and mussed as he buries a hand in them briefly, cupping the back of his head.

He sits down beside Q at the table, and they both eat their breakfast in a particular sort of 3am silence: Q typing ferociously for Queen and Country, and Bond watching him, a lick of second-hand adrenaline keeping him well awake. Twenty minutes later he’s just debating whether he’s still hungry enough to go fry himself up some chorizos, when Q growls, keys clacking a little more furiously and then pausing in a sense of urgency.

“We’ve got to go into Six right now,” Q says, already getting up from the chair and knocking back the last sip of his tea, and then seems to notice he hasn’t got any trousers on. “I can’t finish this from here, I need access to a piece of equipment I’ve got at the office, it’s...”

He hesitates, weighing how much time he can spare, and Bond gives him his best ‘ _please don’t_ ’ face he makes often enough when Q attempts to explain to him some things of the more convoluted technical variety (he’s mastered this face over the course of their relationship).

“Right,” Q nods, and hurries off to put on the first pieces of clothing that cross his path. (He actually doesn’t employ this method of dressing nearly so often as some of his ensembles might suggest.)

Considering that he himself is sporting only a pair of pyjama bottoms, Bond hurries to dress as well, and even though the sense of emergency slides them both into a sharp, fast rhythm of well-trained efficiency, he still takes a few extra seconds to deliberately snatch Q’s oversized hoodie. Because if he’s going to finally do the walk of shame into MI6, he will milk this opportunity to turn it into the walk of pride he’s always wanted to do, making sure _everyone_ knows he’s wooed himself a Quartermaster.

There’s been gossip, naturally (and by some miracle it hasn’t reached Mallory yet, it seems), quite a few people well aware that 007 is enjoying regular sleepovers with the Quartermaster, but neither Bond nor Q have done anything flagrantly publicly incriminating so far.

And Bond’s been looking forward to this _ever so_ much.

* * *

Bond drives them fast through the near-empty streets of London, Q restlessly typing on his phone, using every single scrap of time to the maximum, however he can. He also spares a few words of explanation, frustrated when once more he’s hit the obstacle of needing the specific piece of equipment, and tells Bond one of the feelers he’s put out a while ago into an organisation has intercepted a piece of information, and now is the only chance to follow it into the source.

The drive to MI6 from Q’s flat (their _home_ ) usually takes fifteen minutes. Bond gets them there in eight, Q’s leg jerking in an angrily nervous rhythm through the last three.

When they enter Q-Branch, only five minions of the night shift populate the oddly quiet and desolated area, and they all turn to look upon their arrival. As does Mallory, also present there.

Mallory does an actual double take when he sees Bond, and Bond smirks - Mallory’s never seen him in casual dress before, let alone what he’s wearing now, which is pyjama bottoms, yesterday’s shirt, and Q’s unzipped hoodie adorned with _Doctor Who’s_ TARDIS on the back. Q’s own ensemble is equally middle-of-the-night-emergency: track bottoms, t-shirt, cardigan, and sex hair. He also hasn’t got any shoes on - only slippers and a pair of those fascinatingly garish, colourful socks of his (orange today).

Despite the clearly dire situation at hand, Bond smirks smugly as he follows Q in tow, enjoying the gaping looks of the minions and Mallory’s interesting twitch.

The hoodie really is blatantly Q’s.

Q instantly takes command of the situation with that natural, perfect efficiency, giving out a few quick orders to the minions, and finally gets his hands on the needed equipment, picking up where he left off. Mallory stands beside him, asks two questions, Q delivers brief but satisfying answers, fingers once more flying over a keyboard, beautiful eyes sharp and hawk-like as he sweeps through endless streams of code with lethal precision.

Bond takes Q’s Scrabble mug and goes to make tea in the small kitchen area nearby. A stray minion squeaks a little and flees when he enters, though not without giving Q’s hoodie a longer, wide-eyed look. Bond smirks complacently to himself and puts the kettle on.

(He likes it. Deep down, there’s a warm, a little exciting feeling in his chest; he likes wearing something very visibly Q’s, something that broadcasts loud and clear that they’re involved and marked as each other’s. It’s probably a bit primal, but he’s not going to introspect that deeply at half past three in the morning.)

Upon returning, he carefully deposits Q’s mug on the desk and then takes his place near him, content to orbit for a little bit. If this starts taking longer, he might relocate to the sofa or prowl around to find more people to whom he could show himself in Q’s hoodie, but for now the sense of urgency and chase after success keep him anchored here. Mallory casts him a look, eyes lingering on his clothes with a sense of grotesque fascination. Then, finally, clearly against his better judgement:

“What are you doing here, Bond?”

Bond smirks, calm and collected and very definitely smug.

“I drove,” he explains, pleased with himself. Mallory grits his teeth, looking at Bond’s not entirely buttoned up shirt, and Bond remembers the lovebite Q had left low on his neck only a few hours ago.

Silence hovers in the middle-of-the-night Q-Branch, not much assistance possible, and so the scant night shift minions, as well as Mallory and Bond, watch Q fiercely at work, soaring and dashing through the collapsing labyrinths of codes and data and traps and digital obstacles. At last, Q’s eyes gleam spectacularly, that wide, expressive (and skilled) mouth quirking into a satisfied smile.

“Got it,” he announces with a finishing high-speed typing flourish over the keyboard. “We’re inside their system now,” he types out a few more quick commands, his movements routine and steady. “I made sure the door stays open and undetected - it’ll be best to be quiet for about twelve hours, then we’ll carefully start collecting data.”

“Alright,” Mallory nods, eyeing the walls of code on the screen which flicker out one by one as Q tidies up.

The cybernetic chase is over, and as the adrenaline ebbs, Bond can feel his bones twinge with complaint about interrupted sleep, mixed in with a rival freshness brought on by a too early, energetic start.

“Very well then, Quartermaster, good job. If I could see you in my office for a quick follow-up. 007, you too.”

Behind Mallory’s back, Bond and Q exchange a knowing look. And Bond grins when he sees the aloof steadiness on Q’s face as he walks, dishevelled and utterly incriminated, out of Q-Branch, followed by wildly curious eyes and a flurry of excited whispers starting already. The cheeky little bastard is enjoying this walk of shame just as much as he is.

Bond loves him.

* * *

There’s an interesting new vein throbbing on Mallory’s forehead - Q’s not seen this one before, and he’s seen Mallory court apoplexy on several occasions (oddly enough, almost all of them involved 007 as well).

James is standing beside him, both of them unmoved as they face Mallory who’s staring back at them from behind his desk, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Q blinks calmly, waiting. Truth be told, deep down he’s rather enjoyed the display he and James made of themselves, a clear message that they are both very firmly off the market. That, and James looks positively _indecently good_ in Q’s TARDIS hoodie, the casual, ruffled look stirring some thoughts that Q probably (definitely) should not be having in front of their boss.

(That’s alright – he files those thoughts carefully away, fully intending to act on them later and ravish James for being so damn delectable in casual dress.)

The little walk of shame he and James had done gave Q enough satisfaction to counteract the unpleasant phone conversation from an hour ago. Seeing James dressed haphazardly and wearing Q’s hoodie, clearly marked as ‘taken’ for all to see, is a lovely experience, and Q carefully holds back a smirk at the thought of the rumour mill that must have already started turning via overexcited texts and emails with too many exclamation points.

Mallory’s eyes seem stuck on James’ neck where a mark that Q had sucked into his skin just a few hours ago is taking on a lovely shade of dark purple. Something sharp and pleasant tugs in the pit of Q’s stomach when he recalls the keening noises James made while he was working on that mark.

“Splendid... splendid...” Mallory mutters, eyes not moving.

Q blinks, a picture of perfectly composed and premeditated innocence.

“Sir?”

A twitch passes through Mallory’s face. James looks increasingly entertained. Mallory sighs and braces his hands on his desk.

“Well, I would love to be surprised, but sadly, I was afraid this might happen,” he declares. James looks like he’s just been given a written commendation and promised a medal.

“I hear there was a betting pool,” Q supplies courteously.

Mallory’s gaze is very, very heavy when it lands on him.

“Apparently, Moneypenny has won,” James adds.

“They’re contesting it on the grounds that she had insider information because she’s my best friend,” Q informs him. James makes a sound that could easily be read as concerned or compassionate by someone not familiar with him.

Mallory takes a long, steadying breath through his nose. Q has never claimed to have a better reputation with his superiors’ mental health than James does.

“Be that as it may,” Mallory’s tone meticulously cleaves off the previous topic, “there’s still the matter of your... involvement,” he says the word like it’s the least painful of all choices, which it probably is, Q muses.

“Sir?” he offers again with perfect innocence.

“I know nothing,” Mallory declares decisively. “I’ve seen nothing, I am not aware of anything. I’d like some plausible deniability.”

“Naturally,” James is pure decorum, and Mallory shoots him a slightly weary look.

“And if I don’t know something, I can’t be arsed to fill out paperwork about it,” Mallory adds a little flippantly. “Which means the paperwork is on you. If you two are determined to parade around in each other’s clothes and engage in public displays of affection, I expect the proper paperwork filled out and on my desk.”

“Of course, sir,” Q must have smirked a little (as must have James, apparently thinking the same thing), because Mallory’s eyes are suddenly alert.

“And I wish to god I didn’t feel like I have to say that, but unfortunately I do, so bear in mind that filing appropriate paperwork does _not_ give you permission to have sex on the premises of MI6,” he says, the sentence very clearly bringing him actual physical pain.

Q and James exchange a look. Neither one of them is particularly known for respect for rules and traditional workplace behaviour.

“Understood,” Q says, but judging by the look on Mallory’s face, he needs to work a little on his reassuring tone.

“And lastly, I think there’s no need for me to inform you that I expect your personal relationship not to affect the quality of your respective work performances. Though to be honest, 007, you could bloody well stand some improvement. And Quartermaster, I got a call from the financial department _again_ ,” Mallory sighs. “I know their decisions are quite unpopular with your R&D, but I think making the director’s credit cards fail is not the best strategy.”

“We’re 11% underfunded if we’re to fulfil this quarter’s predictions and complete the projects,” Q may sound bitter, but it’s 4 am and Mallory is forcing him to talk about the idiots in financial - he’s allowed.

“The man was detained on suspicion of identity theft.”

“He’s perfectly fine, if his proposition of further budgetary cuts is anything to go by.”

Mallory sighs and clearly decides to choose his battles.

“Alright. Regardless - good job today, Quartermaster. I hope it gives us access to the target’s network.”

“I’ve established a firm link, but it’s best to keep it inactive for 12 hours or so. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

“Good. Now we can all go home and try to catch some bloody rest. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Goodnight.”

They leave Mallory’s office hand in hand and cross through Q-Branch to let Q double-check everything and send a quick message for R to have when she wakes up. (He may or may not be planning to go in a bit late tomorrow.) He makes sure the minion in charge of the night shift is fully briefed, and bids his adieu, pushing back a small yawn.

James is waiting, lingering three steps into the room, and his entire body subtly but welcomingly angles into Q as Q approaches him, and they leave close together. With a touch of a smile, James wraps an arm around Q’s shoulders and pulls him closer, and oh yes, that’s lovely.

Q yawns, feeling the puffy sensation of tired sleepiness returning. Beside him, James makes a very fond, quiet sound, and presses a tender kiss into the corner of his mouth. Q smiles, contentment blooming in his chest, mingling well with the onset of weariness.

James looks like he’s ready to start the day by hunting down some establishment that would serve breakfast at this abominable hour, but Q has plans to derail that. He has high hopes to coax James into bed for some celebratory sex and then a long sleep-in as the sunrise begins to streak the sky.

(His plans of derailment succeed in full. Once back in the car, he gives James a few soft, gently demanding kisses, and James growls and acquiesces all too easily. They drive straight home and make slow, lazy love, smiling in between kisses, and afterwards Q yawns very widely and very contently, James quipping something at him about it as he cleans them up, before pulling Q close and snuggling comfortably together. The sunrise does streak the sky just as they drift off. Q really likes it when everything bends to his will.)

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> There :D I hope you enjoyed! I'm not very happy with a bit or two, but I like it well enough.
> 
> (And I promise the oneshot about Q's tattoo is coming! It's just being slow.)
> 
> And again - the stories in this series aren't posted in any sort of chronological order.


End file.
